


them

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, POV Outsider, mute silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: sequel toi--Long John Silver is not a man. Long John Silver is a cracked jaw, opening before an endless, cavernous pit. Long John Silver is a monster's right hand --  black with viscera, white with bone. Long John Silver is a rabid dog, held on a short leash by a dead tyrant's skeletal fist. Long John Silver is not a man. Long John Silver is a man.





	them

**Author's Note:**

> this is a one-year anniversary gift to myself, as a year ago today I published my first ever black sails fic :)))) i could maybe have written something a little less dark for that but whatever
> 
> thanks to everyone who has ever even opened one of my stories, let alone read them, let alone liked them, let alone commented on them. you all have changed my life and a year ago, i couldn't imagine being here, and now i can't imagine being anywhere else. love you guys :-*
> 
> unbeta'd because my wife still hates me for writing this

* * *

 

Dobbs is the first to take the vow of silence, after Silver had publicly beat him within an inch of his life. Dooley had watched from the rail, arms folded to keep from doing something he’d surely regret. This isn't the job for a Quartermaster, but no one had told Silver that.

Once Dobbs is laid out on the deck, gasping on blood, Silver reaches for him. Dooley expects the killing blow. If it were Flint, this would be when the killing blow would land. But Silver cups Dobbs’s head, behind his ear. After witnessing those hands split the man’s face open just seconds ago, Dooley would have safely said those hands weren't capable of anything but cruelness. But his touch is gentle on Dobbs, mindful of the breaks and splits, as he helps the man stand.

He waits until Dobbs is able to look him in the eye and focus on him. When he can, Silver raises an eyebrow, waiting.

If it had been Dooley, he would have spat blood in Silver’s face. Maybe a few teeth. He would have raged and cursed until he died, because what else is a man supposed to be do, after being beaten in front of his own crew? If you can't raise your fists, raise your voice. This is a pirate’s code. Dooley knows this. Dobbs knows this.

But Dobbs just grasps Silver’s wrists, keeping him close. He nods frantically, even though the motion couldn't be causing him anything other than pain. With the last bit of his strength, he says, “I’m sorry. _I’m_ _sorry_.”

Silver nods, taps their foreheads together, and then gestures to Joji and Howell to get him to the berth and cleaned up.

It's the last time Dooley hears Dobbs speak.

Even after so merciless a beating, Dobbs is on deck at first light. His steps are shaky, his face a giant bruise, and he looks to be having trouble breathing. But he’s standing up, and he’s doing his job without a complaint, or any word at all.

It’s clear to everyone almost immediately what’s happened, and the idea spreads like a fire through a ship. They’re all a superstitious lot, and many take to the idea right away and follow Dobbs. There are those who are annoyed by it, but what are they going to do? Complain to their Quartermaster that some of them men won’t speak?

Dooley gets it. He knows why the men think they do, why anyone would believe it. He’s heard the men talk in the galley, the kinds of stories Silver used to tell, but doesn’t need to anymore. The men are happy to do it for him. _“I hear he bit out his own fuckin’ tongue right out, an’ swallow’d it, ‘fore he would betray his men.”_ _“Nah, he spit it right out in Cap’n Vane’s face, he did. I saw him do it. An’ smiled right after, mouth full o’ blood.”_

By the time Mr. Scott finally dies, after the customary moment of silence, only about two-thirds of Flint’s crew start talking amongst themselves again.

Dooley doesn’t know if Flint’s noticed. He’s never been particularly aware of the thoughts and feelings of his crew, but he had Gates for that, and Billy. And Silver, once upon a time. Dooley doesn’t know if he’s noticed and is bothered by it, or if he’s noticed and wished the rest of his crew would shut the fuck up, too. Neither would have surprised Dooley.

All Dooley knows is that _he_ doesn’t like it.

They’re all hanging around the Maroon camp, unsure what exactly to do next. No one knew Mr. Scott very well, but everyone there had at least _one_ story to tell -- Scott offering them advice, bodily removing them from the Guthrie place, fucking them over the price of a barrel of goods. There are more problems, of course, but this is Mr. Scott’s home, and Dooley figures talking of war right away would be poor form.

Flint, at the very least, has not taken a vow of silence. He’s talking right now, to Silver. Dooley can see them where he’s perched on a wooden bridge, sharing a bottle of ale with Joji. At least Dooley can be sure _his_ silence has nothing to do with Silver.

Flint looks as though he thinks Silver can’t hear as well as speak, the way he’s whispering so closely into his ear. They’ve been sat together on a porch all afternoon, bodies angled towards each other, barely a hair’s breadth in between them. Even Rackham and Bonny aren’t sitting that close. It’s the way conspirators talk, the way new lovers or murdering rogues do. It makes Dooley nervous.

Flint keeps talking, stroking his beard, eyes moving all over the camp, taking in everyone. Dooley has sailed under Flint for a few years know, he _knows_ the man loves to talk, and he’s good at it, but he must be speaking magic, to get Silver looking at him like that. Silver never looks happy these days. Never looks anything but cold or vicious or despairing. But even from here, Dooley can see a familiar light in his eyes, a slightly crooked twitch to his useless mouth, every time Flint looks at him for a nod or a shake of the head.

Finally, Silver taps the back of Flint’s hand with his busted knuckles, cocks his head towards the men, and when Flint finally nods, he gives a real smile.

He stands. He walks over to the front of the patio and waits a moment for everyone to see him. Then, Silver stomps his foot twice on the wood. Everyone falls silent.

Flint comes to stand next to him, and Silver takes a few steps back.

“Mr. Scott was killed because he was his own man,” Flint begins. “Mr. Scott was killed because he didn’t let his life be defined how society intended. Mr. Scott was killed doing what he believed to be true, doing what he knew was right, doing what most men are petrified to do. And Mr. Scott died a King.”

None of Flint’s crew give a damn about Mr. Scott, but the Maroons do, and they are listening intently. Dooley can’t see the Queen or her daughter, but Flint’s voice carries, and he imagines they can hear. 

Flint outlines their plan for men coming to the island to kill them. It’s simple in its unwavering violence. It leaves no room for error, no place for surrender on either side. There’s no capacity on their end for retreat.

“You all remember Benjamin Hornigold?” Flint asks, looking into the eyes of every man there. “You remember what he looks like?” Grumbles of assent all around. “You can kill as many of his men as you can,” and here, Flint turns and looks directly at Silver, who grins where everyone can see it, before turning back around. “But leave Benjamin Hornigold to me. Is that understood?”

 _Aye_ s ring out all around from the men. Well, from most of the men. Some of the men pointedly don’t say anything at all. Instead, they are silent, and stomp their feet two times on the ground.

Flint tells them they’ll be each informed of their position by nightfall, and then steps away to let them have their evening. It’s clear the Maroons are planning to throw a big sendoff for Mr. Scott, and a funeral celebration seems like the most appropriate thing before a war.

It takes Dooley awhile to catch Flint alone. Silver seems stuck to his side in a way he isn’t typically. The men call him Flint’s shadow, or Flint’s hand, and it used to just be talk. Dooley struggles to believe even the things he sees these days, let alone hears.

Flint is talking to Silver and Rackham and, it takes Dooley a moment to see, the Queen’s daughter. She stands apart from the others, speaking to Flint, who gives her the full amount of his attention. They all break apart eventually, and Flint walks off -- alone.

Dooley follows him into one of the cabins. “Captain?”

“Dooley.” Flint never smiles at him, but he also rarely glares, which is about as good as he can get. “Have you seen any shovels anywhere?”

He actually has, and he leads Flint down to the water’s edge. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, except to just say it. It’s probably a mistake to say it with Flint now holding a heavy, blunt shovel, but this is likely his only chance. And he’s also holding one. He can’t ask for better odds.

“Some of the men have taken vows of silence,” he says.

Flint hesitates in heading back to the camp, but only for a second. “Is that why things lately have been so quiet?” he asks lightly. “I had wondered.”

They trudge back up to the camp through the wet sand. It’s twilight. Soon Dooley will learn if he is to be stationed on the beach, on the front line to die, or hiding in the brush and the dirt, laying in wait like an animal. He’s not sure which he’d prefer. “It doesn’t bother you?”

Now, Flint stops walking. Dooley grips his shovel with two hands, but Flint just seems a little exasperated. “No, but it’s clearly bothering you. Care to tell me why?”

“It’s--” In truth, Dooley isn’t quite sure why it bothers him. Maybe because he doesn’t _know_ Silver, and he can’t trust what he doesn’t know. He knows everything he needs to know about Flint, though. Everything anyone needs to know about a Captain. He can trust that. “They’re _your_ men, sir. They should be showing allegiance to you alone, not…. It’s not good for the men to be divided.”

Flint sighs, leaning on his shovel. “I appreciate your loyalty,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “Do you know who first started it?” 

“I think it was Dobbs,” Dooley says. “Right after he received his -- punishment.”

Flint doesn’t smile at him, but he smiles at that. “Dobbs? That’s funny. Me and Mr. Silver were just discussing Dobbs.”

Dooley desperately wants to ask _how_ they were both talking about him, but he only has so much courage for the night. And anyway, Flint has started walking again.

“Thank you for telling me,” Flint says, hefting the shovel over his shoulder. “Perhaps when we get back to camp, you might point these silent men out to me. They’ll be useful when hiding in the forest. And before you start, Dooley, your concern is noted but unwarranted. You have nothing to worry about from this. The men aren’t divided.”

“How can you be so sure?” Dooley asks. “It’s a split between the crew, like one side is picking you and the other is picking… Silver.” He’d been too afraid to say the name out loud, and he’s not sure why. He thinks it has something to do with a story he heard one night, between raids, when he’d been on the night’s watch. A story he heard whispered in the dark, beneath a moonless sky, while blood still flaked on his wrist.

The corner of Flint’s mouth twitched. “They think that’s how they can emulate his strength, is it? Fine. Let them believe it. We’ll need all the strong men we can get for what’s to come.”

“But, Captain --”

“Listen to me.” Flint stops walking again, and Dooley feels like he’s up in the crow’s nest again, spyglass pressing deeply into the vulnerable parts of his eye, trying desperately to _see_ in the dark. He _needs_ to see it, because it’s his job, and if he doesn’t see it, he’ll die. He knows it. He will die.

“Those men who have sworn an oath of silence are my men, just as you are one of Silver’s,” Flint says. “His men are mine, and mine are his. They follow my orders, and his. They fight for him, and for me.  Because I am _his_ man, and he is mine. _Now_ do you fucking get me, or shall I say it slower?”

 

* * *

 

After the battle, her mother says, “I don’t want you to ever be alone with those two men.”

Madi can’t help but roll her eyes. She has always treated her mother with respect, but with everything they are setting out to accomplish, and with everything they already have, it doesn’t seem necessary to treat her like a child.

“I’ve already sailed to Nassau with them,” she points out. “I have already fought alongside them for our home. Surely these warnings are unnecessary.”

“You had Kofi at your side then, yes?” her mother asks. “You’ll have him at your side now. At all times, but especially if Flint is there. And his Quartermaster.”

Kofi is already at her side, looking like he wants to fidget, which is always how he’s acted since he was a child, and her mother first learned his name. Madi figures they have already spoken about this before telling her, given the way he’s refusing to look her in the eye.

The sun is high, and her men are clearing up the forests after the battle, burning the dead and tending to the wounded. Flint says it will take at least another day or two for the surviving Redcoats to even make it back to Nassau to spread word of what’s happened here, so they have time to consider what happens next. Time to rest. Time to issue overprotective demands better suited for a juvenile.

“They’re pirates, Mother. You knew what they were capable of before. They fought alongside your own men, did the same things your men have done. Where is this coming from?”

“I have seen you looking at the Quartermaster.”

Madi opens her mouth, and then closes it again. She looks out the window of her mother’s quarters, and doesn’t find any answers out there either. In the end, all she can do is shrug. It’s just _looking_.

Silver never looks back though. He seems to avoid her altogether, when he can. But they had walked through Nassau shoulder to shoulder that night. She had heard the dogs bark, the women scream, as they walked steadily away from the tavern. She had seen the blood drip from from his jaw, down his neck. From his hands, down to the sand below.

It had been like walking beside lightning. Like walking beside a rabid, hungry wolf, and the only way she’d been safe was because he hadn’t _seen her yet_. She had felt inches from death, and she _was_. She had tasted the beating of her own heart in her mouth, and she had felt an itch beneath her skin, driving into the very center of her stomach. All she had done was walk beside the man, and it had been the most exciting moment in her life.  

The next day, she hadn’t seen Silver at all, but at dawn she’d found Flint, leaning over the rail, watching the steely gray waters crash into the side of his ship. She’d meant to ask what exactly had happened the night before, because she’d heard the stories overrunning the ship ( _“He ripped Dufresne’s head off with his bare hands.” “The skin was cleaved right from the bone, done by nails an’ teeth.” “Silver cut open his chest, bent back the ribs one by one, and then collected his heart. He gave it to the Captain.”_ ) and she needed to know what was _true._

But instead she had said, “I don’t think Mr. Silver likes me very much.”

If she’d surprised him, he hadn’t shown it. He’d looked at her over his shoulder, and she’d noticed how relaxed he looked, how at ease. She had never seen him look like that, not when they’d first washed up on her shore, or when she’d had him taken out of the cage to plead his case, or when he’d spoken honestly and desperately in front of her mother. That morning was the first time she’d seen him look rested.

He’d smiled. “I think the problem is, he likes you _too_ much.”

“He has a strange way of showing it, then.” She had joined him at the rail, and they had watched the ocean for awhile.

“You’re new,” Flint had said. “You never knew him -- before. He doesn't know how to behave around you. He was a very different man back then. He’s never had to charm someone without his voice before. I think it makes him nervous. He doesn’t know how to be, so instead he just….isn't.”

Madi hadn’t known for sure if Flint had known Silver when he could speak. She didn’t expect it to, but the knowledge made her sad. “What did his voice sound like?”

Flint hadn’t said anything for a long time. He’d rubbed at his beard, callused fingers catching the edges of his lips. In the end, all he’d said was, “Convincing.” 

Madi had smiled at that. “He doesn’t seem to have lost that, even if the charm is harder to come by.”

“Oh, he still has his charms.” Flint had stood then, needing to go about his duty. But before he’d left, he had looked at her again. He still seemed at ease, but also a little sadder, now, too. “Take no offense of Silver’s behavior. I think you remind him of something. Something that could have been, maybe. Or something that he once was.”

And Madi had asked, “What was he?”

And Flint had answered, “Young.”

So now, if she is _looking_ at Silver, she is only trying to see what Flint sees. She knows Silver is close to her age, but she can’t see Silver’s youth. But she also doesn’t see any signs of wear. He’s as ageless as a shadow. Impossible to fight, impossible to touch. Existing in the burning of the sun, and in the overwhelming cover of dark.

But her mother wouldn’t understand her fascination, so she says nothing.

Which of course only upsets her more. “He is an _animal_ , Madi.”

Madi scoffs. “You’ve always told me there was no such thing as an angry animal. Only a frightened one.”

“That was before I met these men. _That_ man.”

“And what do you know of _that_ man?”

Her mother comes to stand with her by the window. She looks stern, but then she always does. But she also looks visibly worried, and she almost never does that. “Only what I have heard.” She grips Madi’s hand tightly. “I have heard how he ripped the tongues from fallen men in the forest so he might eat them.”

Madi rolls her eyes again. “Did you also hear how he takes their tongues to wear around his neck as trophies? Or tries to stitch them into his own mouth so he may speak again? These are stories, mother, _bad_ ones. Kofi, you talk too much.”

Kofi scowls. “I _saw_ him yesterday in the forest, Madi,” he says. “I watched him fight a man until they both lost their weapons, and so he kicked the man in the chest, leapt on him, and ripped his throat out with his _teeth_. I _saw_ this, on my life.”

That, Madi might actually believe. She had seen Silver right after the battle, sitting at the edge of the river with Flint. At first, she’d thought he’d painted his face for the battle, it had been so red with blood. But then she remembered, white men didn’t fight with God on their side, and they didn’t kill with their ancestors in their heart. White men didn’t need to terrify their enemies with anything but their true faces. It hadn't been mask.

Flint had also been covered in quite a bit of blood, but not nearly as much. He had removed his shirt, using it to rinse off in the river. But Silver had just sat there, watching Flint clean himself, looking content to let the blood dry on his skin in the afternoon sun. As though he hadn't felt it at all.

She tries to imagine what Kofi had seen. It is startlingly easy to picture. After all, she has seen the rabidness in his eyes, the stalk of his gait as they’d left Nassau that night. The few times she had ever glimpsed Silver’s teeth, they hadn't looked sharper than normal. They had been as blunt as any humans, but still they had looked ready to bite down.

But, Madi is trying to lead. She is trying to make the best decisions for her people, for this fight. She says, “He is merciless. This is a good thing, mother. We know the other side has never shown any mercy, either.”

Her mother doesn’t disagree. But she says, “And that is why you will _stay away_ , and when you leave here, Kofi will always be at your side.”

Madi doesn’t argue, as a lifetime of experience has proven it to be pointless. But since she hasn’t left here yet, she refuses to have Kofi trailing after her, and when she takes a walk that evening to clear her head before bed, there is no one around to tell her mother she walks right by Silver’s cabin.

Except when she walks by, she sees Silver is not alone. The candles are lit low, and she hides in the shadows, because suddenly she is _terrified_ of what they might do if they spotted her. Not that they look capable of such violence now, but Madi knows better.

Flint is sitting on the bed, fully dressed down to his boots. He looks, though, like he could fall asleep that way. The easiness on his face is a direct opposite of the brutal determination, the fierceness he had worn only the day before.

Silver sits behind him, legs framing Flint’s thighs. His hair is loose, and the orange light from the lanterns shines against the curls, as it does the sweat collecting in the line of his bare back. Madi takes a moment to access his scars. None of them look older than a year. His mouth is pressed against Flint’s shoulder.

If Madi didn’t know the truth, she would think Silver is whispering sweet endearments into Flint’s ear, the way Flint tilts his head back and sighs. The movement is what makes Madi notice it, however. The sleeves of Flint’s shirt are rolled up, and Silver’s fingers linger there on the soft, freckled inner part of his arm. It takes her a minute to realize he is tracing letters into Flint’s skin.

She had given Flint a book of signs, when they’d first let the men out of their cages. On the one hand, she is pleased to see Silver had read it, and learned it. But on the other, she worries what it might mean. What could a man like _that_ do with a voice again? What might he have to say?

She doesn’t hang around to see what Silver is spelling. Neither look capable of brutality, of violence in this moment, in the dark, where the shadows are at their longest. But Madi knows better.

 

* * *

 

When Billy had sat in Flint’s kitchen, trying to write a letter, it had felt like the end of something. He wasn't able to shake it. This was meant to be a new beginning for them all, for Nassau. It shouldn't feel like an end.

Somehow, it felt like the start of one thing and the end of another at the same time. He just couldn't tell exactly what.

“Flint’s wife had summoned a demon to protect him before she died,” Ben suggested. “An immortal demon, with no voice. Because it's forbidden to speak to humans about the terrors that await them in Hell.”

“Maybe he just _is_ Flint’s wife,” Jacob said, “possessing Silver from beyond the grave.”

“That's a good idea,” said Idelle. “Though it might be faster for us to just ask Flint to kill us, if we're planning on dragging his wife’s name through the mud, too.”

Jacob held up his hands defensively. “Just sayin’ what I heard, is all.”

Billy ignored them, trying to think. He remembered his father, who had been a mostly quiet-tempered man, would only go into fits of rage whenever he couldn't get the peace required to write. Billy understood that  

“They call him John the Giant,” Featherstone said. “With a reach as long as an angry wave, and teeth the size of sails, as sharp as barnacles.”

“Nah, you’re wrong,” said Jacob. “They call him John the Hand. _Everyone_ knows that if you condemn a pirate to death in the New World, it won't be long before Flint’s silver hand comes striking down upon you, your loved ones, and your whole fucking town.”

“Can everyone, please,” said Billy, “shut the fuck up.” He had a plan for all this, but something there had stuck in his mind.

Now, he thinks his father would be envious at the thing he’s created. None of his father's ideas had ever taken hold so deeply, had spread so fast. His own men, many of whom had never _met_ Silver, live in fear of him. The people of Nassau tremble at the mere idea of him.  They've melted down their silver plates and cutlery, buried their silver jewelry and coin, because _everyone_ knows Long John Silver can see through them. He can spy on you through it, and if you anger him enough, he’ll silently crawl through the metal and _get_ you.

The fear his men have only doubles when Flint’s crew drag themselves up the beach in smoking longboats and atop driftwood, the remains of the _Walrus_ crumbling on the shallows. He had heard some of Flint’s men had taken vows of silence, which is an idea he wished he’d thought of. But Billy is nervous to note more than half are silent on the beach, despite their obvious anger and confusion at what just happened.

And, he’s even more worried to see, some of them have also shaved their heads.

He's expecting Flint to come storming over to him, demanding answers. The woman, Madi, has, her eyes full of rage. Billy understands the feeling, because _this_ shouldn't have fucking happened. This isn’t in his plan.

But Flint is standing on the shore, watching the water. No more men are being carried out, and it's then Billy realizes he doesn't see Silver.

He swallows his disappointment. He _has_ to. He had used Silver’s name out of convenience, and the thing he created doesn't actually _need_ a face; Billy has proven that himself. But Billy had seen Silver in action, after he’d lost his tongue, and had heard tales of him, tales he hadn't fabricated, in the weeks they’d been fighting apart. He’d been eager to see what they could have accomplished together. He’d had a plan.

Billy says, “Captain. We can't stay here.”

Flint doesn't move. He doesn't say anything.

Madi touches his arm gently. “I’m sorry, Flint. But we _must_ move.”

“He’s alive,” Flint says.

Billy doesn’t know Madi, but the look she exchanges with him is remarkably familiar. “Flint…”

“He’s alive.” Flint starts taking off his jacket. “I know he is. I can _feel_ it.”

Billy sees the other men looking nervously at each other. They’re his men, he notices. Flint’s crew look unsurprised by this statement, though still wary.

He has wondered about Silver’s relationship with Flint, after he’d lost his tongue. Before, you could count on Silver doing anything to save himself, and that meant keeping Flint in check to ensure his (and everyone else’s) survival. Afterwards, survival was the last thing Silver had cared about, and neither man had shown any restraint towards, well, anything.

But Silver’s growing reputation, along with his disinterest in life in general, had made him the ideal candidate to replace Flint, to prop up as the figurehead for his rebellion. Surely, there couldn’t be any measure of loyalty between them.

Silver and Flint had always had a strange relationship, but swimming back after surviving a shipwreck, in a sea full of men with guns -- Billy couldn’t think of anyone he’d do that for, or anyone who would do that for him.

Flint takes off his boots, wading into the water. Alarmingly, some of his men start to follow suit.

“No,” he says, and the men freeze. “Stay here. Go with Billy. We’ll be back shortly.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Billy asks, because he has never, ever been able to tell when Flint is joking. “He’s dead, and we need to _go_.”

For the first time since he’s arrived, Flint turns to him. Billy expects the same dead look in his eyes that he’d worn when Mrs. Barlow had died. It’s not what he gets. Then, Flint had looked so angry, so untethered. Now, he looks angry and visibly, dangerously present.

“He’s alive,” Flint says through his teeth. “I’m going to get him. Head to the interior, we’ll meet you there.” Then he disappears into the glare of the sun.

Well. Billy had intended to find a way to rid himself of Flint. He just hadn’t realized it’d be so easy.

Once again, he’s sitting at Flint’s table. Except now, he’s just with Madi, and she doesn’t look interested in discussing the rebellion with him at all. It irks him, the way she keeps glancing at the closed door until long after the sun has set, waiting for no one to arrive.

“We need to discuss our next move,” he says finally, once all the candles have been lit, and they’re still alone in the gloom of a house in mourning. “I think the Underhill plantation --”

“We will discuss it,” Madi interrupts, “once Flint returns.”

Billy scoffs. “What makes you so certain he will?” Flint had clearly lost it, had finally reached his breaking point, and seemed perfectly fine to swim among the wreckage of his old ship until he drowned, chasing after a phantom.

But when Madi turns her sharp eyes on him, he remembers -- and it hits him like ice in his veins, how quickly he _remembers_ \-- before she even says it. “You know him better than I, but I have heard stories,” she says. “Flint doesn’t die.”

He shifts uneasily, the ice unbreaking inside him, because she’s _right._ But he says, “Everyone dies.”

“Not him,” says Madi. “Not them.”

She must be referring to the fact that Silver is a ghost, a revenant, a golem, a holy saint, a selkie, or some other forgotten creature. Billy knows each story because he _wrote_ those, he told them, and he’s about to inform her of that, but he’s interrupted when outside, a grown man screams.

They hear the clatter of several things falling, a shout, the thunder of horses scattering and neighing, some curses, more yells, a single gunshot, and then silence.

Billy stands, moving between Madi and the door. He withdraws his blade. It’s too quiet. In all the stories he’s told, they all included warnings about the quiet. The governor’s men were never quiet.

The door slams open, and like a hulking, lumbering beast, Flint and Silver stomp inside. They’re both barefoot, Silver’s arm around Flint’s shoulder, and they have their blades out. They’re both dripping -- with sand, and blood, and saltwater. They look like every man drowned at sea, every corpse picked apart by the crush of waves at the ocean’s floor. They’re the haunting that clings to every abandoned ship, sunken ship, and ghost ship -- dragged out onto land by storm and tide. The thin light in the dark dances over them, and for a moment it seems like their clothes waver and shift like they’re still underwater. They look like they’ll never be dry again.

“You need better men, Billy,” Flint says, voice hoarse. “They scare too easily.”

Billy says nothing. He has nothing to say. 

Madi recovers faster. She approaches, but slowly, and specifically touches neither of them. “Which one of you is bleeding?”

“Neither.” Flint helps Silver into a chair at the table. “His ankle got caught in a rope. It might be twisted.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

Flint shrugs when he sees where she’s pointing, to his hands. “Don’t know. Some scavenger at the Wrecks.”

Silver is looking at Billy.

Billy’s father had lived in London during the Great Fire. He’d only been a lad, but he’d loved to tell Billy stories of that night, the tale growing more vivid with every retelling. The stories used to frighten Billy, and they still do. His father had said the red of the flames reached taller than cathedrals, taller than mountains, taller than God Himself, and burned all the way across the heavens, stretching out and destroying everything in its path. But the center of the flames, his father had said, the part that looks cold and bright and _blue_ , that was the part of the fire that had killed all the people.

Silver’s eyes are that kind of blue.

It occurs to him like a bullet -- Billy has no idea what Silver thinks of the role Billy’s created for him. He’d informed them via letters of the shadow war he’d forged in their absence, and Flint would be the only one who’d respond, though he never addressed it. He’d never relay anything from Silver. Billy hadn’t even questioned it, because his plan hadn’t called for questions.

Flint leans heavily against a wall. For a moment, he seems to shrink in size, but now he just looks like a man again, instead of a monster. That changes, though, when he runs a hand over his face, smearing someone else’s blood in the sand on his brow.

“What happened?” Billy asks, trying to avoid Silver’s gaze.

“He was alive,” says Flint. “Like I said.”

Silver taps on the table, getting Flint’s attention. He makes a complicated gesture with his fingers, slow but precise. Flint watches it carefully, and when Silver stops, he nods.

Then Flint looks at Billy, and the exhaustion he’d seen seconds ago is gone again. He no longer looks like a man. “He wants to know what the fuck happened out there today,” he says, lips curling into a snarl, and Billy thinks _teeth as tall as sails, as sharp as barnacles_. “And I want to know what the fuck you’ve done to my home.”

Billy had imagined this day for weeks. He’d imagined them arriving and seeing how capable he is without them, how much better off. All the ground they’d covered, how well he could lead in their stead. He’d thought he had finally crawled out from under Flint’s thumb, that he was no longer the fresh-faced bosun who’d stood there uselessly as Flint asked Gates, _“Who’s Billy?”_ He’d seen himself the giant of this story now. The puppeteer, the one finally in fucking control.

He isn’t in control. But then, Flint doesn’t look particularly in control either, at that moment. And Silver has never been in control as long as Billy had known him. He’s been hapless and faking it before Charles Town, and an unleashed dog afterwards. But that means _nobody_ is in control here, and somehow that makes Billy even more terrified than if one of them had been running things. At least then, he might know what they would do next.

Eventually, Flint takes Madi to where she could sleep for the night, leaving Billy alone with Silver. Billy had never quite figured out how to communicate with Silver again, even after all the other men had. So he’s still trying to think of something to say when Silver stands, no sign of any pain to his ankle, and backs Billy into a corner. He’s inches taller than Silver, but John the Giant towers over him. Silver doesn’t say anything, of course, and he won’t write anything down, and he doesn’t look like he’s waiting to hear an explanation. He just walks until Billy is up against the wall, and then he grabs Billy’s hand. He flips it over, and draws spiral after spiral into Billy’s palm, his eyes never leaving Billy’s face. Billy’s mouth is numb and dry, breath catching in his throat. He can’t meet that blue again, so he looks at his own hand. He watches Silver’s fingers move over and over, until he can almost see the black spot burned into his skin. Silver only lets go when Flint returns to the front room, and they disappear together into the back of the house.

Billy realizes he might have miscalculated things.

The next night, he doesn’t even try to protest the retreat from the Underhill plantation. His plan hadn’t called for any retreats, but there’d be no point in arguing it now. His men don’t match Flint’s in number, and none of Flint’s men would ever switch to his side. Those silent, skeletal killers look at Flint and Silver with such devotion, unlike anything Billy had witnessed before, outside of a holy place.

He tries to tell himself he couldn’t have known. When he’d left them to remain in Nassau, Flint had been despised by most of his crew, as well as feared. Silver had been liked enough, but the loss of his tongue had made him grow cold and otherworldly. They were both so set apart from ordinary men, how could anyone possibly worship them?

But now he sees, how could they worship anybody else?

He has miscalculated.

He just doesn’t realizes how _much_ until word gets out that Berringer is hanging pirates in the center of Nassau. Flint doesn’t even have to inform his own men what they’re going to do. They already know. Flint raises his hand, and they all know the blow would follow. Billy is trying to get Silver to ride into town on a horse, as the center of it all. The beast, back from the dead, here to lay claim to Nassau. The Patron Saint of dying pirates. The Pale Rider. It’s part of his plan.

The first real sense of the scale of his miscalculation comes when Flint agrees with him.

“It _should_ be you they see first,” Flint says, eyeing him intently. The camp is gathered in small groups, passing each other ammunitions, quietly preparing for battle. “You must lead the charge.”

“Too many are divided on who to follow,” Madi puts in. “And the townspeople will have no idea. But they’d likely all follow you. They’ve heard of you before.”

Silver snorts, meeting Billy’s eyes with that cold fire again, just long enough for Billy to smell smoke, before looking back at Flint. He makes a quick gesture with his right hand, touching his forehead and pulling down, then sticking out his little finger and thumb.

Flint smiles. It’s a dangerous thing. “Because they know you’ll only ever lead them to war.”

And here is the evidence of Billy’s second miscalculation:

Flint grips the back of Silver’s head gently, pulling him in close in full view of _everyone,_ and none of Flint’s crew even fucking pause. His lips brush against the corner of Silver’s mouth and then he touches their foreheads together. Silver’s hands come up to cup Flint’s face. But not to push him away. To keep him close.

“Because the Governor’s men will be watching your every move,” says Flint, viciously happy, “and they still won’t see you coming.”

Silver grins crookedly, takes one hand off his face to sign something else, something longer. Flint laughs, and doesn’t translate it.

Billy is too stunned to say anything, but Madi has the decency to subtly tug him away. He knows she doesn’t like him at all, but she probably just saved his life. Not that it’s so unusual for men to be together, but for _these_ two men to do so, here, now, like _this_ \--

Billy has never been in love. Not even close. He’s never understood it. He has seen love burn people, and burn everyone around them. And that’s just what happens with _regular_ people. In this life, you could adjust for men fueled by hatred, by anger. You could make sense of it, at least, and find a use for it. Love has no place in this life.

He walks away, shaking. This is not what he wanted. This is not what he planned.

And in the end, none of the governor’s men see Silver coming, even as he approached them in the light of day. Billy loses them in the ensuing fight, especially once the townspeople join in, but it’s clear almost from the start that they have the upper hand and never lose it.

He does see them once, in the middle of the fight. Silver parries against a Redcoat who looks genuinely terrified, but the Redcoat gets a lucky hit, and Silver falls. There’s no time for the soldier to do anything, though, because Flint is there, at Silver’s back like a shadow. He leaps on the Redcoat, hands empty of any weapon, but he doesn’t need one to jam his thumbs into the soldier’s eyes. Billy is several meters away, and there are shouts and bangs and shots ringing out from all sides, but still, he can hear that soldier’s scream.

Other soldiers flock to the sound, but Flint isn’t defenseless, distracted as he is. Silver is back on his feet the moment Flint takes the soldier down, and has taken the soldier’s sword from him, using it to cut down the approaching Redcoats. He keeps cutting until he has a straight line to Berringer. A man who has the been the bane of Billy’s existence for weeks, who has captured and killed more of his brothers in the short amount of time than in the entirety of Billy’s piracy career, a vicious and bloodthirsty man, lethal in a fight -- Silver slits him open from throat to stomach without ceremony, without pause. One strike, and the battle is theirs.

It will take some time before the others notice, though, so Billy keeps fighting. But he also keeps watching, so he sees when Flint stands, hands dripping with blood. He walks to Silver, his Right Hand, dripping with blood. He sees when Silver runs his finger over his bottom lip, like he’s savoring something he can no longer taste. Billy sees them reach for each other, mindless of the carnage, and then he has to look away.

Billy fights, but he doesn’t see what he’s fighting anymore. Instead, he keeps seeing a blue that can kill men, and a red that burns across the heavens. He fights. He’s better at fighting than telling stories anyway.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy.  
>  He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy.  
> He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul,  
> but there won't be a single thing that you can do  
> He's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru  
> They're whispering his name through this disappearing land  
> But hidden in his coat  
> is a red right hand_  
> \--Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [them [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641221) by [ponytailflint (inkgeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkgeek/pseuds/ponytailflint), [vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug)
  * [Cover for "them" by vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133065) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)




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